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  • The Golden Boat

    The Golden Boat

    ★★★½

    New York as an alien city, drenched by madness and decay, an anarchic comedy that operates as something like Hartley on acid. The film has an abrasive cinephile iconography that goes from a film noir to a slasher in a matter of seconds within a formal experimentation that goes well with the cracked up comedy. Wonderful Zorn score, by the way. Statistics and numbers, people doing what they can, killing to get by.

  • The Downfall of Osen

    The Downfall of Osen

    ★★★★

    Memories of violence floating within the steam of a train as a woman sacrifices herself, against the weight of tradition, in the memory of a lonely man. A paper crane blown away by her breath and a future that continues its path. Spectacular dynamism and a very strong poetic edge that gives the film a dreamy, transgressive sensibility.

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  • Where Is My Friend's House?

    Where Is My Friend's House?

    ★★★★½

    one of the most diligent films ever made, a painstaking coming of age odyssey with an incredibly expansive symbology: everything here is absolutely essential, a boy whose back hurts because he needs to help his father by carrying milk, some brownish red pants, a gust of wind in the backyard, the windows' reflex on the walls... it's all very potent, these signs aren't there for mere narrative development, they address a much bigger spectrum where politics, economics and metaphysics collide.…

  • The Woman Who Ran

    The Woman Who Ran

    ★★★★

    Cables, surveillance cameras and doorbells, chickens, cows and cats, apples and alcohol, women and empty spaces, mountains and oceans. An intimate portrait of a woman who meets a couple of friends to talk about youth, animals and marriage and later finds herself in a cinematic interlude where she meets two ghosts from her past and confronts the horizon in a movie theater. Is she still running or the colors of the ocean finally granted her stillness?

    ‘If he just repeats himself, how can that be sincere? That means it’s all from memory, but how can that be sincere?’